By now, Kalyavan was all over the circle, nimble as a squirrel. Satyabhama, on the other hand, was grounded. But if Rain was honest, Satyabhama seemed on the back foot now. She was no longer attacking. Rain gasped as Kalyavan’s sword hissed at Satyabhama, who dodged it narrowly, forcing away his backhanded swing and reeling back.

‘Gaia smiles on you, War Mistress,’ Kalyavan said as he stepped over a discarded pile of jute sacks packed with grains. ‘You are swift, I will grant you that. I wait with great anticipation to see how smoothly you move in bed when you surrender.’

The Greeks cheered while the Mathurans rumbled angrily.

‘Oh, you have no idea, Greek,’ Satyabhama winked, distracting him just enough to thrust her shield at him.

He jumped back with a laugh. ‘Cheeky.’

STORM was shocked to see Kalyavan flirting with Satyabhama as if she was nothing more than a pest he would swat in his own time. ‘Asshole, fucking asshole!’ she hissed through tight lips. Her ears throbbed with the diabolical rage of battle, the clashing of blades. Soldiers shoved her and she was borne back and forward in the press of avid-eyed, blood-thirsty spectators.

Storm told herself that she hated this; that it was too risky for Satyabhama to wager her life; that she wanted to break the circle and descend on Kalyavan and save the woman who had saved her. But the truth was she loved it. Loved the violence. Loved the delight it brought. She felt her heart thump as Kalyavan feinted and attacked from the right; felt her throat go hoarse from screaming when Satyabhama parried and dodged.

Kalyavan’s blade crashed into her shield again. This time however, the wood seemed to explode inward under the force of his blow. He pushed his blade against the battered shield on Satyabhama’s forearm. She went back, sliding in the muddy ground. Kalyavan’s sword was held just short of Satyabhama’s nose, but she did not panic. The War Mistress’ eyes were fixed on the scarlet edge of his steel. The bastard was right, his blade is Assyrian steel. It would cut through the shield if she did not move. Satyabhama finally got purchase as her heels hit a corpse and brought the two of them into a tangled halt. With his free hand, Kalyavan drove his fist into her mouth. But Satyabhama kept her feet, blood trickling from her nose down her lips. They spat in each other’s faces, blades scraping as they twisted their grips, shifted their balance, jerking their aching legs like a pair of drunken dancers unable to decide who should take the lead. Kalyavan punched again, but this time Satyabhama moved her head to dodge it, and bit the side of his palm. She wrenched her head back, gouging out a piece of flesh. Kalyavan’s blood felt like warm rain as it sprayed across Storm’s face.